Not Chasing, Prowling (8)
by dylannhyland
Summary: May 2013-January 2014. Same universe as Never Once Failed (probably best to read the rest of the series before you read this). What I imagine happening after the encounter in TGG; I wasn't convinced by TRF. The Holmes Brothers are a formidable team. Established Johnlock - like I said, best thing to do is read the rest of the series first! Fluff, low-level angst, smut, happy ending.
1. Chapter 1

"Sherlock, run!"

John was standing aside, then he was around Moriarty's neck. Shit-_ no. Caring doesn't help, caring doesn't solve the case. What case? This isn't a case, this is John strapped up in explosives. No. This is a game. Moriarty can't win. Sherlock must win. He always won. What could Moriarty do to him? Moriarty could kill him, obvious choice. Stay focused, stay cold._

"I will burn you. I will burn the _heart_ out of you."

"I've been reliably informed I don't have one."

"We both know that's not quite true."

_His urge was to glance at John - no, too telling. _

_**You've rather shown your hand there, Doctor Watson**__. _

_He caught his body before it could betray him entirely, turned the movement into a blink. In that millisecond, he realised. _

_**Sherlock, run!**_

_He was Moriarty's equal, but he was not like him. Oh, Mycroft would be so disappointed - and not to mention, smug. He always told Sherlock - "Don't be smart, Sherlock, I'm the smart one." Well, maybe he was right. Mycroft kept everyone at a distance, never allowed attachment to form. And here was Sherlock, with a companion. Moriarty didn't have companions._

_**That's what people DO!**_

_There was someone whose life he had a vested interest in continuing. He could be manipulated._

_**I will burn the heart out of you.**_

_He had a weakness. _

_Shit._

Moriarty was gone.

_**No, you won't!**_

Jacket was gone._ Words not. Happening. Shit. Not good._

_**Jim, from the hospital? **_

_**Sherlock, run!**_

"Are you okay?" _John. No, John, I have a weakness. I have a friend._

_**We both know that's not quite true.**_

"Me? Yeah, fine. I'm fine."

_**You just can't.**_

"That, uh, thing, that you did, you offered to do, that was - erm - good." _Shit. Still not words happening. Too much adrenaline. _

"You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool, people might talk."

_**That's what people DO!**_

_No. Funny. Can do funny._

"People do little else."

_**That's what people DO!**_

_**I will burn you.**_

_**That's what people DO!**_

_**Daddy's had enough now.**_

_**No, you won't!**_

_**You've rather shown your hand there, Doctor Watson.**_

_**That's what people DO!**_

Enough.


	2. Chapter 2

5 May 2013

Sherlock wrenched himself into reality. The eerie blue glow of the pool dissolved into the dark bedroom. 5:17 am. He rarely dreamt, and even more rarely did he dream of real life. This, though, this dream of the pool and Moriarty and John and bombs, had increased in frequency in the last few months since he and John had affirmed their existence as partners. Distressingly vivid, the memories intensified and warped.

His body in the dream had been cold, but now the sheets were damp with perspiration. Moriarty's voice was still bouncing around in his head as he rolled over to face John's back. They never slept with bodies entangled; after thirty-seven years of solitude in bed, Sherlock found the embrace of another body overbearing and suffocating when he was trying to sleep. Usually, just a tender thread of touch kept them in contact - ankles resting together, fingers brushing an arm. Reassuring each man of the other's presence but allowing both a restful night's sleep. Now, though, Sherlock needed an anchor. His left hand snaked between John's arm and his ribs, and settled on his chest. No explosives. Just skin and hair and muscle, tense from carrying too many bags of shopping home eleven hours ago. A pulse thudding lightly underneath his index finger where it rested in the dip just above John's right clavicle. Life. His right hand slipped under the pillow, supporting his own head more comfortably. He breathed deeply, inhaling the smell of John's skin. He kept his eyes open. Moriarty's deranged features were still burning his retinas, like they had when he was drugged in Dewer's Hollow._ No. Here is safe. John's safe. The fight continues. _

Sherlock and Mycroft already knew so much about Moriarty's web. There was more, but they were close. Without realising it at the time, the kidnapper that Sherlock had captured in December had given them more information on Moriarty's network than she even knew existed. Every crime syndicate she had given Sherlock information on was part of the web, and through them, Sherlock and Mycroft had been able to trace almost all of Moriarty's operatives. Moriarty would come, but they would be ready for him.

Sherlock may have a weakness that Moriarty would try to exploit, but Mycroft was cold and capable and unyielding. Mycroft wanted to crack Moriarty's network, so he would. Of course, Sherlock was assisting him (the first time Sherlock had ever deigned to be in Mycroft's charge - there were some things worth losing a little pride over). It had been decided that John must not play any role in this particular operation, so while Sherlock was not keeping him in the dark about he and Mycroft's plan, he let John know no more information than necessary. John trusted him, so he took Sherlock's advice and carried on as per usual. Sherlock himself was keeping a low profile, taking smaller cases (dull but necessary), staying under the radar. It was imperative that Moriarty didn't think Sherlock was getting too ambitious and nosy again. His homeless network, however, were on constant high alert, and receiving larger back-scratches than ever.

This was no chase; this was prowling through a minefield. Every movement calculated, assessed for risk. Vigilance was key, and speed the price of safety. If Moriarty suspected what the Holmes brothers were doing, this would end very badly, very quickly. Sometimes weeks would pass without news from Mycroft or the homeless network. Sherlock occupied himself with everyday life at Baker Street, resisted the urge to let this sluggish cold war against Moriarty become all-consuming. He knew where every one of Moriarty's British-based assassins, smugglers, dealers, assistants and clients lived, worked, and ate. He knew their patterns, he knew when Moriarty contacted them, he knew what he asked them to do. He knew each of their pressure points and he knew how Moriarty was making them dance. Two can play this game.

He and Mycroft's database was growing. Once they had located and profiled all of his operatives, all it would take was for Mycroft to pull one thread in that vast, delicate web and it would all unravel. Moriarty kept his people quiet by blackmail and threats. Mycroft could offer ultimate protection. Witnesses would come forward, the legal case against Moriarty would build. Of course, Moriarty would then target the judges and jury, but Mycroft was ready for that. They would be untouchable. Moriarty was only so powerful because of his vast network - but without a network, he was nothing. That was his problem - there was only one James Moriarty, but there were two Holmes brothers.

When Moriarty was jailed, his death in prison from a 'heart attack' would barely make the papers. Having the British Government _and_ Secret Service for a brother undeniably had its perks. The thought of Moriarty's ultimate demise calmed Sherlock immeasurably. Of course, it was a shame to lose a mind as brilliant as Moriarty's. But nobody, _nobody_ strapped John Watson up in Semtex and lived. It simply wasn't acceptable.

He pulled John closer, and his lips brushed over the soft skin of a shoulder. John murmured something vague about "'S half a tin o' beans in the fridge if you're gettin' up," and Sherlock allowed himself a smile. Oh, John. So placid. It was somewhat bizarre, this relationship. Having never given himself to someone before John, he wasn't sure exactly what it was meant to be like. His parents were the only example of romance he had ever had enough prolonged exposure to, to be able to analyse in-depth. Their relationship mirrored John and Sherlock's in some ways, and vastly differed in others. In 221B there were no grand declarations of love and devotion, there were no pet names (what a repugnant concept). They went out to dinner a few times a week, but they had been doing that since they had moved in to Baker Street anyway. They enjoyed each other's company and bodies. There were occasional absent-minded touches, reassuring and comforting. There were volcanic, animalistic encounters where lust drove away all humanity. There were tender caresses of worship as they made love in the sanctuary of this bed. Public displays of affection were limited; especially with Moriarty constantly hovering on the edge of Sherlock's consciousness, he avoided any physical contact that could advertise their relationship openly and make John more of a target. Overarchingly, there was a simple understanding of unwavering companionship, loyalty and mutualistic symbiosis. They were not some disparate entity now that they had affirmed themselves as partners; they were just John and Sherlock. John kept him anchored in the real world, where beans on toast were eaten for breakfast and lovers shared beds and bodies and conversation. And Sherlock kept John anchored in The Game, the constant battle against chaos and criminals, saving lives and solving mysteries and the thrill of the chase. It was a balance between the ordinary and the extraordinary, and sometimes Sherlock didn't know which was which. Sherlock used to think that nobody else had something of worth to offer him, and that he himself certainly had nothing resembling companionship that anybody else would want. That was John's mystery.

"Can I use the microwave for beans?"

"What d'you mean?"

"Can I heat the beans in the microwave or do I have to do proper cooking things?"

John huffed out a sleepy laugh. The selectivity of Sherlock's memory was always a source of amusement for him. "Yeah, you can microwave them. Take them out the tin and put them in a bowl, though, or it'll blow up. A minute on 'high' should do it."

Sherlock pressed his lips to the shoulder again and rose from the bed. Pulling on his dressing gown, he went to the kitchen to attempt to make breakfast. He spent a few minutes just standing next to the table, looking at the array of appliances. Toast bread, butter toast, heat beans, put beans on toast, make coffee, dismantle international crime network.

Simple enough.


	3. Chapter 3

August 17

Sherlock's phone chimed, pulling him out of his reverie. He read the text.

_"Spare change for Mr. Holmes, 3 Manson Place at 4pm today. HY"_

Sherlock typed his reply as quickly as his fingers would allow.

_"£3.50 for one coffee would do. SH"_

The codes that the homeless network used were constantly changing. With 'Operation Rentokil' (Mycroft had an awful habit of giving things stupid code names to aid his notion of self-importance, and the plan to unravel Moriarty's network was no exception) in full swing, every precaution was being taken to avoid detection. The code was being changed every second day. Currently, anyone in the network who had information for Sherlock would send him a text suggesting a time and place to meet. Sherlock would reply with a monetary value (the pound value corresponding to how many hundred yards to the west, and the pence value corresponding to how many yards north of the originally suggested location) and a number of food items (the number referring to how many hours to meet before the originally suggested meeting time) to arrange the actual time and location to meet. No important information was ever sent electronically, or even by paper these days - word of mouth only.

This was the final piece. The last operative that Sherlock and Mycroft needed information on before the thread could be tugged and Moriarty's empire would fall. Sherlock had chosen specifically to give Howard Young the task; the man had proven himself over and over again to be astute, capable and - most importantly - unwaveringly loyal to Sherlock. He was one of the most trusted members of the homeless network.

Sherlock rose and crossed the room to where John was reading his book (Honestly, _The Black Dahlia_? The plot was transparent from the first nine pages) in his armchair. He was so engrossed in it (bless him) that he only started and looked up when Sherlock was standing directly in front of him.

"Everything alright?"

In answer, Sherlock bent down to kiss him, his hands bracing his weight on the arms of the chair either side of John. John made a pleased sort of sound and closed the book. Sherlock noted he didn't bother to dog-ear it; perhaps _not_ so engrossed, then. Sherlock loved kissing John like this, unhurried and without intention; it was physical contact that was intimate and enjoyable without being carnal. An effective way to express affection, and particularly pleasing due to the endorphins it produced. Now, Sherlock let his lips speak wordlessly to John of his relief and anticipation. For so long now, the shadow of Moriarty had been hanging over them, a distant but constant threat to their existence together. Not for much longer. John drew in a sharp breath, and his eyes flickered open as understanding hit him. "You've got him - the last one?"

Sherlock let a smile reach his eyes.

"The last one."

He pulled away, and retreated to the bedroom to find a suitable change of clothes.


	4. Chapter 4

August 17

He was walking towards the intersection of Gloucester Road and Harrington Gardens, looking convincingly like a city-boy barista on his lunch break. Burgundy chequered shirt buttoned right up to the neck, no tie, brown leather bomber jacket, fashionably faded skinny-cut jeans complete with a newsboy cap and heavy black leather boots. Remnants of coffee stains over his shoes, and a burn on his finger from the milk steamer. Sherlock's disguises were nothing if not thorough. John hadn't been able to suppress a laugh when he had seen him.

"Got any spare change, sonny?"

Sherlock stopped as though the grubby man had just caught his attention, and put on one of what John called his 'civilian voices' - this particular accent cultivated over years of listening to the inflections of London market vendors. "Oh, um, yeah, gimme a sec mate, I'll have a look."

He fished his wallet out of the pocket of the jacket and crouched uncomfortably in the too-tight jeans next to Howard, who was sitting against the wall. Nobody even glanced as they hurried past. London life left no room for interest in the homeless that cluttered up the sidewalk. He pretended to rummage through his wallet for coins as Howard relayed the final snippets of information to him in a low voice. "Filip Lendgate, male, 48, widower, fifteen children who need feeding and keeping off the streets. Jim's personal driver in Belgrade."

"Ah, look mate, I haven't got any coin but take this." He pressed a folded £50 note into Howard's hands.

"God bless ya, sonny, God bless ya."

Sherlock gave him a genuine smile before standing and continuing on his way. It wouldn't be long before Howard unfolded the note and discovered the train ticket. Howard had a daughter and grandchildren in Leeds that didn't know he lived on the streets. He rarely visited due to the cost of train travel - in fact, it had been over three years since he'd seen them. Howard would never divulge this to Sherlock, of course, but Sherlock had deduced it. Perhaps his relationship with John had softened him, but he thought it was about time Howard got to visit home.


	5. Chapter 5

August 17

Sherlock didn't bother to knock, swinging the door to Mycroft's office open. He was back in his suit and coat. For once, the elder Holmes didn't protest at the intrusion. He glanced at the two suited men on the opposite side of his desk, and sighed. "Deepest apologies, gentlemen, we will have to continue this at a later date." When the suits didn't immediately move, Mycroft rose from his seat pointedly. _"Another time_, gentlemen."

Sherlock waited until the door was closed and the two men had walked several yards down the corridor before speaking. "Fancy a walk in the park, dear brother? You look like you need some fresh air." They didn't trust any enclosed space nowadays, not even Mycroft's own office.

Twenty minutes later, they were in the fresh air of Hyde Park, each with a cigarette in hand. "So. The last operative." Mycroft looked at Sherlock expectantly. Sherlock took a long drag before relaying the information about Lendgate. Mycroft appraised him with that all-seeing stare that had scared him when he was a kid. Now though, Sherlock understood what that stare meant. Like his own, Mycroft's mind was whirling through the data, making the final connections - checking, double checking, triple checking the links between each file, every operative, all the threads in the web. Eventually, he refocused on Sherlock. A rare crinkle appeared at the corners of his eyes.

"A job well done, it seems. And now it is time, brother dearest, to sit back and watch the show," he paused and his face again became serious. "But _be vigilant,_ Sherlock. There is every possibility that some may remain loyal. Keep an eye out."

The elder Holmes crushed the cigarette into the pavement, turned on his heel and swept away.


	6. Chapter 6

September-November

_"WHO IS JIM MORIARTY? THE MOST DANGEROUS MAN YOU'VE NEVER HEARD OF"_

_"UNRAVELLING THE WEB: CRIMINAL MASTERMIND TAKEN TO COURT"_

_"HOW DOES MORIARTY DO IT? THE INSIDE SCOOP ON JIM'S CRIMINAL NETWORK"_

_"DEAR JIM: EVIDENCE MOUNTS AGAINST CONSULTING CRIMINAL AS WITNESSES EMERGE"_

* * *

The headlines blared from every newspaper that John brought home. True to plan, Mycroft had orchestrated Moriarty's arrest and lined up the first witnesses against him. The first few threads broken.

It had been agreed that Sherlock and John would remain out of the legal proceedings as much as possible - for their own protection. The last thing Sherlock needed was a public image. Moriarty had plenty of people in the media still and for the next several months while the network was unravelled, he needed to continue his habit of keeping as low a profile as possible.

He stayed behind the scenes, putting everything he had stored in his mind palace under _"Moriarty, James"_ (Moriarty didn't just have his own room, but his own _library_ in Sherlock's head) down in writing as evidence for the prosecution. Moriarty's network was so vast that for more than a month, he stopped taking cases entirely. He would have usually complained about the lack of excitement - he spent his days mostly sitting at the desk, writing and cross-checking facts - but knowing that he was bringing Moriarty to his knees with every word he wrote was immensely satisfying. Once upon a time, he would have bemoaned the lack of a rush, the lack of adrenaline. This though, this was cold-blooded; the most orchestrated form of genius. Everything was anticipated, every eventuality allowed for. Moriarty would not be able to contest the vast bank of evidence that the Holmes brothers had compiled. That was the most satisfying part of this operation; there would be no kicking or screaming. Moriarty would know that he had been stopped. He would meet Sherlock's eyes and he would know that he had been beaten.

Soon enough, they would be able to make more arrests - as the court proceedings continued, more evidence was piling up and more names were being revealed.

November rolled around, and the charges against Moriarty already were worth 15 years in jail - and they courts had barely scratched the surface.

John continued his work at the surgery, taking on a full-time load to keep himself occupied. With no cases, and nothing otherwise he could do in the fight against Moriarty, he was slowly going a little mad with the need for some danger; something to get the blood pumping. His restlessness did result in some pretty explosive sex, but he was still looking forward to when this particular chapter closed and they could take on cases again.

* * *

Author's notes: If you're intruiged by the 'pretty explosive sex' that Sherlock and John have been having, I've got a little sample (well, 3,000 words) in my connected story "Tell Me Something Interesting". Feel free to check it out ;) xx


	7. Chapter 7

November 25, 2am

Darkness. That was all John knew. There was silence, and he was aware only of the pressing black. It was quiet here. He existed in this liminal space for what could have been a millisecond, or an eternity.

At some point, though, trickles of sound started weaving their way into his consciousness. Lowered voices, just a tangle of vowel sounds. He couldn't make out the words. Maybe there were no words. A steady, intermittent beeping tone. Something like shuffling footsteps. No voices any more. Rustling fabric. Still that beeping.

After sound, touch returned. He first felt a hot ache start at his right temple, and it bloomed outwards, creeping its way over his face, over his eye and up his scalp and over his ear, it was starting to throb. _Ow._ As his sense of feeling returned, rolling slowly down his body, he felt another throbbing pain at his jaw, then his shoulder, _fuck_ his shoulder really hurt, where he had been shot there was a relentless deep ache. His wrists burned, his ribs - _shit, that feels fractured -_ and his abdominals ached. He wanted to gasp or moan or make a sound, but he couldn't find a voice, couldn't open his eyes, couldn't move. His body was too heavy. _Where am I? What happened?_

He tried to remember why he felt like this. Wasn't he just at work? _Did something happen at the clinic? No, wait. I left the clinic._ He tried to pull up the memories, but it felt like trying to remember rapidly fading dreams. Thinking too much made his head hurt more. He was walking home. Black car. Mycroft's car. _I got into Mycroft's car._ _Did Mycroft do this to me?_ That didn't seem to make sense._ No, wait again._ Anthea hadn't been in the car. A bloke had been in the car. A bloke _with a gun_ had been in the car. His temple throbbed particularly strongly as he remembered being struck. _Ow. So that's why my head bloody hurts._

He didn't remember the car trip. He had woken hanging in the air. Wrists taking the weight, tied above head. _And that explains the burn._ Too high. Toes were just touching the ground. A sharp pain exploded from his fractured rib as he remembered the blow that had woken him. _Ah- fuck._ He had been defenceless, couldn't bring his arms down to protect himself. An unfamiliar voice had accompanied the blow._ "Where's Sherlock now, John?" _Sherlock. _Sherlock. Jesus, where _is_ Sherlock?_

Heaviness be damned, he pulled his eyes open now. It felt like trying to pull a car with a finger, but he needed to find Sherlock. Dark, but still too bright. White and aqua blurred in front of him and the familiar sterile smell filled his nose. _This is hospital._ The colours hadn't yet resolved themselves into shapes when a voice sounded next to him. Brown entered the swirl of colours at the edge of his vision. Voice said something again. _I know that voice._ _I know that word._ The sound permeated his brain again, and this time it made sense.

"John."

The colours arranged themselves a bit better, and he realised he was in a bed, and the brown entity was Sherlock was standing next to his bed. _Okay. This is okay. Sherlock's here. I'm in bed. In hospital. Hospital's good. _And with that thought, he slipped from consciousness into the darkness again.


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note: This chapter contains torture. Nothing sickening, but torture nonetheless. If you don't want to read this, skip to the end of the chapter for a clean summary so you can continue with the story.**

* * *

November 24

_"Where's Sherlock now, John?"_

His ribs cracked. A cry escaped his lips. A blonde-haired man swam into view. Fingers balled into a fist. Face too close. Bad breath. Breathing into John's open mouth. Tall. Suit. Dark room. Hard to tell where he was. Head hurt.

_"Oh, don't be such a cry baby. Jim _said_ you were soft."_

_Jim? Moriarty? Shit. Shit, shit. How did he -_

A blow to his stomach winded him.

_Can't breathe. Shit, can't breathe. Need air._

_"You look a bit breathless there, Johnny. You alright?"_

The blue eyes were too close again. Leering. Even, white teeth.

_Gasp. Cough. Gasp. Air. Wrists burning._

He tried to toe the ground, support some of his weight with his feet.

_"Oh, no you don't, Johnny."_

The man pushed at his back, making him swing. Feet couldn't touch the ground. His arms felt like they were being pulled out of his shoulders. He cried out again. Swinging. Spinning. Dizzy.

_"Who - who are you?" _He pushed the words out in gasps.

_"Sebastian Moran. Pleased to meet you. Finally." _Moran was leering again. _"Do you know why you're here, Johnny boy?"_

Another blow, this time to his jaw. He tasted blood. He'd bitten his cheek.

_"No? No guesses?"_

Moran hit his shoulder this time.

_"Well, I'll give you a hint."_

Another to his shoulder. He couldn't hold in a whimper.

_"Sherlock's been a very naughty boy."_

Another to his shoulder. _Fuck._

_"He's put my Jim away."_

He held back the tears that were threatening to spill. _"Your - your Jim?"_

_"I've become accustomed to a certain sort of lifestyle, John."_ He spoke with that same lazy lilt as Moriarty. _"As Jim Moriarty's second-in-command, you generally get any sort of lifestyle you like. Money. Power. I can do whatever I want, whenever I want, to whomever I want. Or, I could-"_

Ribs.

_"-before-"_

Stomach.

_"-Sherlock and Mycroft decided to shut down our fun."_

Shoulder.

He couldn't hold back the tears now. They flowed freely, his autonomous response overriding his determination to stand up to Moran. Everything hurt. He tried to speak through the gasps and the sobs.

_"Why this? Why me?"_

_"Oh, Johnny boy, you're not very bright, are you?" _Moran grimaced at him, a look of false pity on his face. _"If Jim's going down, if I'm going down, Sherlock needs to pay. I've only got so much time before they lock me up, too. I'm putting it to good use."_ He came close. Too close. His hand grasped John's throat. His other hand brushed through John's hair in a sick imitation of an intimate gesture. John's stomach rolled. Moran's mouth came to his ear. He couldn't move away, his arms prevented any movement. He closed his eyes. Everything hurt.

_"What do you think Sherlock will do, John? What'll he do when he finds you? Do you think he'll even recognise your face? I'll leave a little bit for him. I think he'll cry. How long do you think he'll cry for? An hour? A week? A year?"_

Moran pulled back, just a little. John kept his eyes shut.

_"Come on, Johnny boy. Open your eyes. I want to make sure you're feeling it."_

A minute shake of his head. He wouldn't do what Moran asked. Moran was just as deranged as Moriarty. His voice turned dark.

_"Johnny. John Watson. Open your eyes."_

His fingernails dug into John's face. John kept his eyes shut.

_"Johnny, if you don't open your eyes right now, I'll-"_

But John never heard what Moran would do. Instead, he heard a gasp then a sickening crunch, and the hand on his face tore away as something thudded to the ground near his feet. His eyes flew open. Sherlock was in front of him, chest heaving, an unbridled rage in his face like John had never seen. He didn't look human as he stood over Moran's body. John followed his gaze. He was accustomed to bad injuries, but the angle that Moran's head was sitting in comparison to his body made his stomach turn. His eyes were blank and staring. Broken neck.

_Oh my God._

_Oh my God._

_Oh, Jesus._

_Sherlock just killed him._

Sherlock looked up and met John's eyes. The rage slid from his features in an instant, leaving behind only a sickened, scared, worry. Sherlock had never looked like this before, either. John had never seen him look so terrified. Not when he thought John had betrayed him to get the Bruce-Partington missile plans. Not when he thought he had seen a giant monster dog in Dartmoor. Tears welled in the detective's eyes before he started forward and began to undo John's bindings.

_"I'm sorry, John. I'm so sorry."_

He felt Sherlock's arms encircle him as the ropes holding his wrists gave way and he started to collapse. His injuries were too painful. His vision was blurring again. He tried to say something, but the darkness claimed him.

* * *

**Author's Note: If you chose not to read this chapter, here's a clean summary: In a dream, John remembers what happened to him. Sebastian Moran (Moriarty's second-in-command) wanted revenge on Sherlock for his part in bringing Moriarty's network down. Moran abducted John while on his way home from work and beat him. He would have beaten him to death if Sherlock hadn't found them and killed Moran, rescuing John.**


	9. Chapter 9

November 25, 10am

When John awoke again, the world came back to him much more quickly than his first attempt. He blinked a few times. The light in the room was different. That same monotonous beeping - a heart rate monitor, he now realised. He still hurt, but it was duller. He managed a whisper.

"Sherlock?"

"John."

He tilted his head to the left a little, and his eyes found Sherlock sitting in a chair by his bedside. God, he looked terrible. He was still dressed in his suit and coat. Dark circles hung beneath his eyes, and never mind pale - his skin looked positively _grey_. His dark curls hung lank over his face. Despite all this, a small smile reached his eyes when he saw John awake.

"You -" His voice was a croak, his throat dry as a crisp. He swallowed before trying again. "You look bloody awful."

Sherlock exhaled shortly through his nose and one side of his mouth pulled up into a half-smile - as close to a laugh as was appropriate for a hospital bedside when your partner had been beaten to a pulp. At any rate, he was clearly reassured by John's ability to curse. He raised his eyebrow at John in a look that said _**I**__ look awful? I should get you a mirror._ Instead, his lips twitched back down to a position of concern and he became serious again.

"I've been waiting for you to wake." His hand reached out to rest on John's. His thumb smoothed over the skin. It was comforting. This was more intimate than they had ever been without a closed door between them and the rest of the world. Neither of them was a fan of public displays of affection - and even then, it wasn't as though they were ever overly affectionate in private either. They were forty-ish-year-old men, for goodness' sake (not that anybody who looked at Sherlock would know it - the git still managed to still look about five years younger than he actually was). Occasional touches of fingers to hair or shoulders were about as lovey-dovey as it got. Then again, as John looked around slowly, he realised that they _did_ have a closed door between them and the rest of the world. He was in a private room. It seemed that Mycroft's name not only opened doors; it could close them too, if necessary.

"How long have I been out?"

"About fifteen hours. It's 10am," he paused. Concern wrinkled his usually smooth features and he studied John's face seriously. "How do you feel?"

"Like I've had the shit beaten out of me."

Sherlock grimaced, and silence fell between them. They sat like that for a few minutes, Sherlock's thumb still stroking the back of John's hand.

"Sherlock, how did you find me?"

Despite John's less-than-ideal state, Sherlock still couldn't resist rolling his eyes, although he lacked most of his usual attitude. "_Please_, John, I've had the homeless network tracking your every move since this whole thing began. As soon as you got into that car, I knew."

"Moran said he wanted revenge."

"Yes. He knew he was due to be arrested. He knew he didn't have much time."

"And, er, I assume that it's all... been sorted?"

"Yes. I was careful. No physical evidence. Nobody can trace it back to me. You'll have to give a statement, of course, but you were unconscious the whole time so there's not much you can say, really, is there? I pulled in a favour from some of the homeless network. The police are currently looking for a six-foot dark-skinned bald man wearing a raincoat and jeans that some hobos apparently saw go into the building where you were about the time Moran was killed. Moran had enemies - I'm not surprised one of them was following him. The killer must have run away just before I found you." Sherlock's tone was perfectly normal, but it was clear what he was really saying.

Silence fell again. When John spoke next, it was a whisper.

"Have you ever done that before?"

Sherlock feigned ignorance, jerking an eyebrow upwards.

"Done what?"

John just raised his eyebrows. Sherlock relented.

"No."

_"Sherlock,"_ John fixed him with as concerned a stare as he could pull together. "Are you okay? I mean, you killed a man. Snapped his neck. That's not something that just happens. It's natural to be bothered by it."

He knew the words brought back memories for the detective too. For a second, Sherlock even looked like he was tempted to say "Yes, but he wasn't a very nice man," just as John had the first time he killed for Sherlock, but he seemed to catch himself. His lips twitched as though he was trying not to laugh. _Not particularly bothered by it, then,_ John thought. Sherlock collected himself, then fixed John with a rare look of complete sincerity. That miniscule smile meeting his eyes again. His hand squeezed John's.

"John, there is no realm of hell to which I would not gladly travel for you."


	10. Chapter 10

December 5

Being kidnapped and tortured is not the sort of thing one generally laughs off. This might be obvious to most people, but John and Sherlock were in the habit of laughing off the sorts of things that would send most people to therapy. Shot a man to save your friend? Well, he wasn't very nice, after all. Girlfriend nearly gets speared by a load of gangsters? I _promise_ the next date won't be like this. Get strapped up in Semtex? Don't rip my clothes off, Sherlock, _people will talk!_

But Moran had been different. This had been well and truly too close to home. John hadn't really suffered nightmares since he'd moved in to 221B, but now he was haunted again by the sneering words.

_**Where's Sherlock now, John?**_

In hospital, thankfully, Mycroft had been able to arrange a recliner for Sherlock to sleep on. He stayed every night and if John was restless in sleep, Sherlock would be there to wake him, to reassure him. He would hold his face, those sharp eyes probing his own with concern, and tell him it was okay, _you're safe, now, John. _He would place a hand to John's heart and press firmly and gently, grounding him. He would take John's hand when he had settled again, and stroke it soothingly until John fell back asleep. This was Sherlock as tender and concerned as John had ever seen him. And while John appreciated being the _receiver_ of care for once in his bloody life, it was _weird. _It showed just how much Sherlock had been disturbed by it. That his personality around John had become positively doting (compared to a Sherlock whose ultimate act of devotion was to deign to allow John to rest his head in Sherlock's lap while reading) was to John, the biggest indicator of _yes, this was definitely too close a shave._

John hoped the dreams would settle once he was back at home, but he was proven wrong - and he realised that it was going to take a bit longer than that to let go of the fear. And he had a feeling that the strong painkillers he was on weren't helping his overactive imagination. Every time, it was the same. A blow to the ribs and the realisation that he didn't know where Sherlock was.

_**Don't worry Johnny, Jim's looking after him. Do you know what Jim's doing to him?**_

He tried to call Sherlock's name - but in the terrible way of dreams, he couldn't make any noise. He just struggled and gasped for air, trying to call out, and he didn't know where Sherlock was, _he didn't know._

The days were fine. Daylight has a certain reassuring something about it. He knew the plan. He knew that Mycroft and Sherlock had it under control, and that not too long from now, Moriarty wouldn't be able to touch them again.

But the dark has a certain sinister something about it.

As much as he told himself every night before he went to sleep that they were one day closer to this whole bloody thing being done with, his slumbering mind had other ideas.

_**Where's Sherlock now, John?**_

Sherlock. Sherlock!

_Sherlock!_

_**Don't you know, Johnny?**_

Shit. Sherlock. _Please, help me, Sherlock._

_**If I'm going down, if Moriarty's going down, Sherlock needs to pay.**_

His ribs cracked again. And again. _And again._

Sherlock, help, please, _please!_

John jerked awake, pulled out by his own voice finally cooperating and crying out.

He panted for a few moments before he rolled over, his hand reaching out in the dark to find the warm solidity of Sherlock's body. He kept reaching. And reaching.

And then he realised that the bed was empty, and his blood ran cold.

No. _No._

_Stay calm_, he told himself, _he's probably just taking a piss or something_. But he looked towards the bathroom door, and the light was off. There was no light coming from under the door to the hallway, either.

_Oh, shit_. He was paralysed by fear. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't blink.

_Sherlock, where the fuck are you?_

A million scenarios ran through his head. Sherlock, lured out of the flat and into a black car. _Sherlock, tied up and unable to defend himself. Sherlock - _

And then John heard it. Soft, at first. The gentle sound of bow on strings, drifting in from the other end of the flat. John recognised it immediately. His favourite, Bach's Partita #1. Not the most soothing piece as it was usually played, but Sherlock was not the average musician. Tonight, he did something to the tune that made it soft, malleable, gentle. And hearing that music untied the knot that had formed in his chest, melted the blood that had frozen in his veins.

Sherlock was here, and he was safe, and he was looking after him.

The music grew gradually clearer as Sherlock moved back towards the bedroom. He didn't stop playing to open the door - he just pushed it open with his back. And that, John now realised, was the reason he hadn't turned the lights on when he'd gone to fetch the instrument; so that he wouldn't have to interrupt his playing to turn them off again.

Sherlock saw that he was awake already, and came to sit down on the bed. He played for another twenty minutes, the whole way through the piece, and John could feel himself melting back into the mattress. He wanted to reach out and stroke his fingers over Sherlock's back, but he knew that Sherlock hated to be touched while playing.

When Sherlock drew the final note and placed the instrument down on the bedside table, he laid back down and faced John. One hand reached out and cupped John's face.

"Sorry. You woke before I started playing."

He must have heard the cry that had brought John back to reality.

"Did it help?"

John smirked, his mood vastly improved again. He was definitely going to get off these meds as soon as possible, these moods were far too variable.

"You _know _it did, you've been taking my pulse from my temple. I'm not a _complete_ idiot. But yes, it helps."

Sherlock smirked right back at him, despite his slightly drooping eyelids. God, he looked tired. John realised that the detective hadn't had any nights of uninterrupted sleep since John had been kidnapped.

"I'll keep the violin in here, from now on."

"Huh. Maybe I should get kidnapped more often, if it merits a lullaby every night."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Hilarious. True comedy gold, John."

"Hey, you can't blame me for trying to _crack_ a joke every now and then."

"Oh, for _God's sake._ Go to sleep so that I can get some." Sherlock rolled onto his front. He placed his hand on John's chest, and the weight of it was comforting. John conceded that perhaps the '_cracked_ ribs' '_crack_ a joke' pun had been a step too far into the region of _really_ bad puns. Maybe it was the painkillers talking.

"You're thinking too loud."

"Alright, alright, going to sleep, now."

"Please do."

"'Night, Sherlock."

"G'night, John."


	11. Chapter 11

January 2014

Normal circumstances did not apply in this situation. While Sherlock had always treated Mycroft's position with vitriol, the elder Holmes had proven to be an indispensable ally over the past year.

His effectively complete power within the borders of the United Kingdom had made Moriarty's downfall possible. Of course, it was not just for Sherlock's benefit. Mycroft would never bend as many rules as he had just on the basis of Sherlock's whim. In matters such as this - where Moriarty was a threat to not just Sherlock and John, not just to London, not just to England, but to every country on the planet - extreme measures were called for. And this was the most extreme thing that Mycroft had ever used his powers to do.

The question that had arisen in the early stages of planning this operation over a year ago was _what was to be done with Moriarty once the courts had finished with him?_

The charges against him would amount to life in prison, there was no doubt about it. However, what prison could hold him? There was no facility in the world that could stop him from being a threat to anybody (or _everybody_) outside its walls. There was no doctor, no psychiatrist that could persuade him to change. While he had access to _any _human being, he could threaten, manipulate, rebuild his power. Sherlock knew this better than anybody else, and Mycroft didn't take much persuading.

So, the answer was obvious: James Moriarty had to die.

Which caused the absolutely not normal circumstances in which Sherlock, John and Mycroft now found themselves. If Moriarty was going to die, nothing could be left to chance. As few people as possible had to be involved, and only a very select few could be trusted.

Initially, they had considered having Moriarty taken to Belarus: the last place in Europe that still practised the death penalty. That idea was dismissed quickly; far too much paperwork and far too many variables to be sure of a safe outcome. No. It was imperative that Moriarty travelled as little distance and came into contact with as few people as possible. In the controlled environment of his current prison, Sherlock and Mycroft could ensure that Moriarty had no opportunity to manipulate or form contacts, to scheme, to work a way out of this. He must remain here and he must die here.

The execution itself was to be performed by lethal injection. Mycroft arranged all the necessities months in advance. Sherlock, John and Mycroft would be witnesses to it. They had to ensure that it was done properly. They could not trust anyone else to verify the process. While miniscule, there was still a chance that Moriarty may have planned a way out of this. So, they would all witness it. An executioner hand-picked by Mycroft would perform the procedure. John would examine the body and confirm death. They would keep the body under scrutiny for three hours, and repeat the procedure with another separate executioner, again chosen by Mycroft. John would then re-examine the body and re-confirm death. The two executioners were the only people outside of the Holmes brothers and John to have any involvement in his death. Molly Hooper would then come to take the body to Bart's mortuary, the body would be destroyed, and James Moriarty would be no more.

* * *

January 30 2014, 11am

The guard opened the door to Moriarty's cell. Sherlock followed Mycroft in. Moriarty was lying on the bed on his back. He continued to stare at the ceiling as he spoke, a smile playing about his lips.

"Nicely played, _Misters Holmes."_

He sat up without looking at Sherlock or Mycroft, placing his elbows on his knees, and he looked at the floor as though in a state of deep contemplation. Eyebrows frowning, eyes vacant, lips slightly parted. Mycroft opened his mouth to speak, but Moriarty interrupted him with his lazy drawl.

"You know, I never planned on growing old." He didn't move, but his eyes swept up to meet with Sherlock's. He was nearly impossible to read. His face hung slack but his eyes were wide and burning.

"People get _boring_ when they get old."

He fell silent, still staring at Sherlock. Sherlock held his gaze, keeping his own expression unreadable. Mycroft took Moriarty's silence as his cue to speak.

"Mr. Moriarty, you are due to be executed at 12pm today. This is your chance to make any final requests or say any final words. After this, you will be taken from this cell for the last time and to the execution room for the procedure."

Moriarty's eyes fell to the floor again. He ran a hand through his hair. He sighed.

"You solved it, boys. The final problem."

A deranged grin crossed his features. His eyes became unfocused and he looked between the brothers with what could only be described as adoration.

"Thank you. _Bless you."_

* * *

January 30 2014, 8pm

Sherlock, John, and Mycroft stepped out of Bart's Hospital. Mycroft's car was waiting, but both of the Holmes' immediately reached for their pockets and pulled out a packet of cigarettes in synchrony.

John was tempted to laugh, but he felt so strung out after the events of the day that he could only manage a weak snort.

That was it. Jim Moriarty was dead. Definitely, unmistakably dead. His heart had stopped beating seven-and-a-half hours ago, and his body had just been cremated. His ash now sat in a cardboard box, which would be buried without ceremony. He couldn't hurt any more people. He couldn't break any more hearts. Four years to the day since John has first heard that infernal name, and it was finally all over.

He didn't know what came over him, but suddenly he reached out and plucked Sherlock's cigarette from between the detective's fingers and took a drag himself.

Sherlock smirked and looked at John sideways. "Don't take up smoking, John. It _really_ doesn't suit you."

John chuckled. "Nope, that's all I needed. That'll last me the rest of my life." He handed the cigarette back to Sherlock and chuckled.


	12. Chapter 12

January 30 2014, 11pm

John and Sherlock lay in the silence and the darkness of the flat, facing each other. Neither were likely to sleep for a while. Sherlock's mind was still racing through the events of the day. His habit of constant vigilance (bordering on paranoia) that had developed over the last fourteen months wouldn't leave without a fight. He kept repeating that short conversation in Moriarty's cell in his head, analysing, re-analysing, filing all his own different interpretations in the cabinet labelled _"Moriarty, James: Death"_.

There was one fact that was indisputable, though.

"Moriarty wanted to die."

John, who had been watching Sherlock in silence for over an hour now, jumped slightly when he spoke aloud, clearly startled out of his own thoughts. He frowned.

"He _wanted_ to die?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"He was bored. I've told you before that breaking rules is too easy. There's only so far you can go before you've broken all of them and there's nothing left to do."

John frowned at him, his expression doubtful.

"Oh, _please_, John, you know exactly what I mean. You've been going mad, since we stopped taking cases and especially since your ribs have been healing. The monotony has been driving you to distraction."

"Well, yeah, but not enough to want to die. I mean, I've always known it's temporary, we can take cases again now that it's all over."

_"Exactly._ Moriarty couldn't rely on other people to keep him busy like you and I can. We just wait for a case to come to us. He had to _make_ the cases. There's only so much scheming one can do before you begin to repeat yourself. Lose motivation. When I first met you, you were in an awful state," he fixed John with a serious look. "You had no plan,_ yet you still had your gun, John."_

John's expression changed. They hadn't really spoken about this before. It had been silently understood, but never more than that. Life had moved on. There hadn't been a reason to discuss it until now. John swallowed. He stayed silent for a while, and Sherlock gave him the time to think.

"Well. Yeah. I guess so. But I don't think I'd ever have _actually_ done it. I don't think I'd ever have actually killed myself. I suppose I was just hoping something good would come along, and it did, I moved in here." He paused again, and frowned. His voice became small. "Actually, I dunno if I'd be alive if I hadn't run into Mike in the park that day. Maybe if something bad had come along instead, it would have been enough to make me do it."

Sherlock's hand found John's beneath the covers and he entangled their fingers - a safe bet for providing comfort. He had never been much good with sympathy, but for John, at least, he wanted to try. He waited a few minutes before speaking again.

"I think Moriarty was the same. He never would have killed himself unless driven to. We took that choice out of his hands. He said we solved the final problem for him. _Staying alive."_

"Jesus."

Silence fell between them again. John was the one to break it. His tone was lighter now, and a little smirk played about his lips.

"You're bloody _sad_ he's gone, aren't you?"

Sherlock looked away. Something told him it was a bit Not Good to be bothered by the death of an insane (but genius) criminal mastermind, especially if said death was what one had been working purposefully towards for over a year.

"No, I'm not."

"You said that too quickly."

"No, I didn't."

"That too," John laughed.

"Oh, shut up." He huffed and rolled over so that he had his back to John. He immediately felt John's fingers run up and down his spine. The fingers trailed low enough to brush just below his tailbone. Definitely suggestive.

"Look, think of it this way, now you get to find yourself a _new_ arch enemy."

Sherlock hummed lowly, more in response to John's fingers than to John's words.

* * *

Ten minutes later, and they were a mess of soft moans and tender touches. John was rocking into him slowly but deeply, every thrust making Sherlock's head spin. This was his favourite way to make love; face-to-face. This way he could watch John lose himself in Sherlock just as he was losing himself in John. They shared tender kisses and caught each other's gasps and sighs and moans. John changed the angle of his hips, and _oh!_ That familiar jolt of electricity ran up Sherlock's spine, making every nerve in his body sing.

His fingertips traced a familiar path; from John's hairline down to hold his face, then to rest in the hair behind John's ears as his thumb stroked over the cheekbones for a while. John's pupils were wide and dark and drinking in Sherlock's own. He wrapped his legs tightly around John's hips, holding him tighter, letting him in deeper. John moaned and kissed him fiercely, their tongues sliding together and groans echoing in each other's mouths, and John's rhythm increased to something more desperate.

Sherlock's left hand fisted in the sheets - what he really wanted to do was hold John's ribs, but he wasn't willing to risk aggravating the recently-healed injury - and his right traced down John's throat, fingers tracing his clavicles, and finally came to rest on his chest. He had discovered in the last few months that feeling the rhythm of John's life beating beneath his fingers produced a fierce physiological reaction.

Sure enough, his head jerked back on the pillow involuntarily and a shudder rolled through his body as his fingers found John's heart. He felt his orgasm coil low, and he needed John _closer, deeper, more, John,_ and he could feel that John was getting close too, his heart thudded against Sherlock's fingers faster and harder like the rhythm of his hips, and he was moaning Sherlock's name, and _oh, John, I-_

He came with John's name on his lips, a choked-off groan, and felt John's rhythm stutter too, and they were both shuddering and gasping and holding each other close as John spilled his release in Sherlock and Sherlock spilled his between their bodies.

Sherlock always treasured this. These moments during and after sex, where they were both laid bare for the other. The only time he let his emotions completely rule him. He held tight to John's shoulders as the doctor collapsed, letting himself drape over Sherlock's body. They both disregarded the slick mess between them.

"John."

"Mmm?" John nestled his face in Sherlock's neck.

"I... I know I don't say it often, but-" he paused, grimacing. He had spent his life having Mycroft training him to rid the self of emotions, and it made it difficult to say some things out loud. In the last fourteen months with John, he had managed to break down a lot of those walls - sex had been the first, then kissing and other general touches of affection, but words? Admitting such weaknesses - _Shut up, Mycroft, it's not a weakness_ \- out loud was still difficult.

Of course, John knew exactly what he was trying to say.

_"Go on,"_ John prompted him after a few seconds, a smirk in his voice.

"I _do_ love you," he paused, silently pleased with himself - the same way he was pleased with himself when he managed to resist a cigarette. John kissed his neck.

"Thanks for saying it. I love you, too."

"And if there was no other reason that I was glad Moriarty is dead, I would be satisfied knowing that he can no longer target you."

John made a pleased sort of noise and reached over to grab some tissues from the bedside table. He cleaned up the mess they had made, and rolled off Sherlock to lie beside him. His eyes were closed now as he spoke. Sleep was closing in.

"It's good to know that he can't hurt anyone else. You've done a good thing, you know."

Sherlock snorted.

"I do lots of good things."

"Yeah, but usually you're solving a murder. This was saving lives. _Lots _of lives."

Now it was Sherlock's turn to make a gratified noise as he reached down to pull the covers over them both. John's voice was slurring with sleep. He never stayed awake long after orgasm.

"You know, Greg once said you were a great man, and maybe one day you'd be a good one," his voice drifted off and he was silent for a minute. Sherlock glanced over at him, and saw the doctor's face was slack with sleep. He was about to roll over and succumb to sleep himself, but John started awake again and his hand found Sherlock's shoulder and squeezed clumsily.

"I reckon you're a good one."


End file.
